


how dare you speak of grace

by quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)



Series: Stridercest Week [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: A few unfortunate mentions of dysentery, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM themes, Bondage without actual rope, Dominant Dirk Strider, Dubious Consent, Edging, Former King Regent Dave, It's not medieval without mentions of the bubonic plague, King of Derse! Dirk, Knight Commander! Dave, M/M, Medieval AU, Morally Ambiguous Character, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Political Intrigue (past), Power Imbalances, Power Play, Referenced Underage (Dirk is Of Age in this one though), Referenced/Implied Rape/Non-Con, Revenge Sex, Shaving, Sibling Incest, Stridercest Week, Submissive Alpha Dave, Tongue Piercings, Unhealthy Relationships, genital piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-19 11:13:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13703295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique
Summary: “Are you imagining slitting my throat with that, Commander? Or perhaps sinking it between my ribs?” he asks, an eyebrow raised. Dirk takes the bowl carefully, setting it down and folding the towel right next to it. The blade, he leaves in his brother’s hands for now. “And bring some soap, as you’ve forgotten. Lest you find yourself with a few more cuts than anticipated.”“I would never dream of hurting Your Majesty,” the man says, smoothly, before he returns to the adjoining bathing room. Dirk has to give his brother credit- were it anyone else, he would have believed it.





	how dare you speak of grace

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the works for ages, let me tell you. But it's finally done, and the last thing I'm doing (very late) for Stridercest Week this year. Hope y'all like it.

_The pull on my flesh is just too strong_  
It stifles the choice and the air in my lungs  
Better not to breathe than to breathe a lie  
When I open my body and breathe alive

 _I will not speak of your sin_  
There was no way out for him  
The mirror shows not  
Your values are all shot

 _But oh, my heart was flawed_  
I knew my weakness  
So hold my hand  
Consign me not to darkness

_Crawl on my belly til the sun goes down  
I'll never wear your broken crown_

_I took the rope and I fucked it all the way_

_In this twilight, how dare you speak of grace?_

-Broken Crown, Mumford and Sons

* * *

 

The room is dim, when Dirk enters it, only lit by the fire that blazes merrily in the hearth and casts warm light and long shadows against the floor. His boots deliberately scuff against the stone as he pauses before the thick furs that line the floor. There are no servants here to remove them, something which near scandalized the court. God forbid the King attempt to undress himself; from the way they twittered about it, it was as if some great calamity had shattered the Kingdom. Though, he has no need of a servant to do so, not when the figure lying supine on the bed slides off it instead.

The man is tall and broad, his frame flecked with scars and freckles as it has always been, though there are a few new ones of note, blonde hair curled wiry on his chest and on the trail down past his hips, and dishevelled atop his head. He is, of course, completely nude. But for the jewellery that Dirk has placed on him- a coronet of gold, set with ruby and tourmaline, formerly belonging to the Crown Prince; thick golden bracelets that resemble shackles more than anything else, set with matching stones; a necklace that clings tight to his throat like a collar one would place on a dog. And a studded golden bar through his tongue, though he’d certainly protested having it put in. It matches the one in the King’s own mouth, albeit a different shade. There’s another, of course, through the head of his cock- and Dirk knows that it was a particular cruelty, on his part, though he does not indulge the part of himself that regrets it.

(“And this,” he had said, holding a needle and a silver bar that gleamed in the firelight, “to show that silvered tongue of yours, that mouth, belongs to me.”)

“Your Majesty,” his brother says, quiet and dutiful as he’s learned. A smirk tugs at his mouth as the man kneels before him, undoing the buckles of his boots.

Dirk does not always have this luxury, of course; it would be unseemly if his brother were to disappear entirely from Court. And it certainly would be a waste of talent, to simply keep the other here. No, his Knight Commander’s life goes on almost entirely as it had before, though there is a delicious sort of irony in how that it is kept that way by _Dirk’s_ doing, rather than David’s. And given that he treats his Knight so well when they have these moments of solitude, now that he has learned to listen, Dirk is inclined to believe that he’s far more generous as a ruler than his brother would have been.

His boots are removed entirely, the man’s hands lingering along the curve of the Prince’s calves as he kneels before him, his posture that of a supplicant. Dirk hums quietly, and allows his hand to lift slightly to cup David’s cheek. His thumb smooths across the high arch of a cheekbone, rough with stubble.

“Have I not told you numerous times that you are to remain clean-shaven?” he asks, his voice pitched soft. Dirk kneels as well, slow enough to be patronizing as his fingers shift to tilt his brother’s head up. Their eyes meet in an inferno.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” the words are said perfectly, of course, though the underlying tone is bitter. “But if I may defend myself, it is near impossible for me to maintain such smooth cheeks, as I am not a youngling. And nor do you grant me the time required to shave as such.”

Dirk pretends to ponder this for a moment, before he straightens up. The man ascends with him, unfurling to his full height- David remains taller and broader than him, a fact that is as irritating as it is pleasing. Another sort of irony to indulge in, perhaps.

“I suppose you’re correct on that count, sir,” he admits, his thumb shifting to rub against the strong jaw the man inherited from their father. Dirk tends to favour his mother more, he’s been told, though he also supposes the fact that David is not true-born certainly hasn’t done much to belie their resemblance. “Go to the bathroom, fetch the blade you find there, along with soap and water. It will have to be lukewarm; I won’t summon a servant to bring any.”

The reason for this goes said, though it hangs in the air between them as Dirk lets his palm drop back to his side. David, to his credit, only inclines his head in a terse bow before doing as he’s told. That level of obedience had taken rather long to draw out, given the prior nature of their relationship, but it is indubitably better this way.

He does not fiddle with the stud through his tongue as he waits- such behaviour is unseemly of a King, after all-, though he does draw a chair to his dresser, the wood dragging against stone floors as he does. He clears the wooden surface of the dresser, too, so that the ornate mirror hanging from the wall remains unobstructed. There is very little of consequence, there; oils scented and unscented, for other purposes; rings he wears on occasion; a few medallions, as befitting his station. He has had enough of jewels adorning him, and rarely suffers any unless absolutely necessary. It’s the same sort of decadence that had gotten his mother killed.

David returns just then, a small lacquered bowl holding the water in his hands, along with a towel and the straight-edged blade requested. He holds it like a knife, and Dirk’s mouth curls at the corners at the sight.

“Are you imagining slitting my throat with that, Commander? Or perhaps sinking it between my ribs?” he asks, an eyebrow raised. Dirk takes the bowl carefully, setting it down and folding the towel right next to it. The blade, he leaves in his brother’s hands for now. “And bring some soap, as you’ve forgotten. Lest you find yourself with a few more cuts than anticipated.”

“I would never dream of hurting Your Majesty,” the man says, smoothly, before he returns to the adjoining bathing room. Dirk has to give his brother credit- were it anyone else, he would have believed it.

“Of course,” he drawls out, amused as is his right. He tests the water temperature, to find it pleasantly warmer than expected, and the towel is already slightly damp.

David returns with a second bowl, this one with less water, and the soap already being worked into a lather with a small brush. It’s unusual to see him like this; Dirk knows those fingers as gripped around the hilt of a broadsword or the slim rapier he prefers, he knows them greedy and claiming as they travel across skin and dig in to leave bruises like brands, he knows them once, twice, during music lessons long gone, plucking at the delicate strings of a harp and coaxing beautiful melodies from a pianoforte.

He knows them best wrapped around his throat, cupping his cheek, tangled in his hair or in sheets (his sheets, as they should be).

This is a strange sort of domesticity, and it’s habitual to take that bowl from David’s hands and gesture him to the chair just in front of the mirror with a flick of his eyes, like a particularly well-trained dog. The Knight Commander sits, his broad shoulders tensed as he rests the blade on one firm thigh, his finger running almost absently on the edge.

“You’ll cut yourself,” Dirk murmurs, but makes no move to take it. He works the soap and water until the bowl is full of nothing but white foam, his eyes fixed on the man rather than on his task.

“I’ve suffered more than my share of heinous injuries,” David speaks softly, as Dirk starts to brush the foam across his skin in careful, measured strokes. One slanting down the sharp line of his jaw, another going up. “A flesh wound on the finger isn’t going to kill me.” Up his cheeks, now, tracing the high, strong bones and covering the faint scar following it on his left side. Dirk remembers that- it had been from a would-be assassin, a blow meant for his own heart when he was younger. “And I think dying via razor would be more than a little inglorious.”

“Quite right.” Long strokes now, dipping below his jaw and along his neck, coating the places he’ll be sure to leave marks on later, wrap his own slender fingers around. There are fewer scars here, but for a single thin one just under his jaw- one left by Dirk himself, as a reminder after his coronation. There are others from that night, though those are more easily concealed beneath his tunic. “You can speak of the campaign, if you would like. It’s something that I do need to know about, after all.”

“Is that an order?” David asks, and Dirk replaces the brush in the bowl, surveying his handiwork for now. An even coating, just as he wanted. He doesn’t speak just yet, watching the man shift and tense slightly at a perceived misstep. Before, it would have bothered him. But now, he is secure enough in their roles to know that this is not truly defiance.

“No.” He answers simply, and picks up the blade. Dirk holds the edge up to the light, examining it for a moment. The firelight from the hearth flickers red and gold against the silvered metal. David relaxes a fraction of a degree. “Tilt your head back.”

(“Go on,” he had said, gesturing carelessly to the razor and the bowl. “You have seen it done, and have been shaved yourself. Now, it is precisely your turn to do so for me. After all, we both know who you truly belong to, do we not, Your Highness?”)

David’s immediate compliance kindles a low, warmth pleasure in his chest. Satisfaction at a job well done, adoration for the one he so thoroughly owns, now.

Dirk is careful, as he tips the man’s chin up and back, baring the length of his throat. He doesn’t bother to hide the slight smirk on his lips at the way David tenses under the barest touch of his fingers, his breath hitching.

“Sorry,” David is quick to murmur in response, his eyes darting to Dirk only once, before returning to the ceiling. He’s careful as he angles the blade, a precise incline, and it rasps quietly against his Knight Commander’s skin as it clears off the foam and hair beneath. This is a familiar, practiced motion, leaving smooth skin in its wake. Wordlessly, David holds out a towel, and Dirk wipes the blade clean before making the next stroke. It’s routine, repetitive.

“It’s perfectly fine,” he answers, as reassuring as he can manage. Dirk keeps his touch light and detached as he pulls skin taut, shifts angles as needed, tests the feeling of the skin underneath. He lets his index finger linger a few seconds to long on the point just under his jaw, where his pulse beats with vitality.

“I see.” David’s voice is soft, unusually breathy. Dirk enjoys hearing him like this more than he will ever admit, even as he focuses on clearing his jaw. “I’ll brief you on the campaign itself later,” David continues, shifting a little to get comfortable. Dirk allows this, dipping the blade into the clear, hot water before drawing it in a flat line across his cheek.

“Acceptable,” he hums, an indication for the other to continue. David seems to prefer clear lines distinguishing their roles, a far cry from his opinion on that matter in the past, and so Dirk is only sometimes willing to indulge him in such a demarcation. The rest, he prefers the ambiguity that makes his former Regent squirm. It’s another in a series of petty revenges, and on the rare days where he has the occasion to truly think on it, his dependence on this charade is terrifying. It would be so easy, to simply cut David loose. Allow him to bed others as he pleases, let him remain away from court as long as he would like. And yet-

“We rode past an old summer residence, on the journey there,” David begins, clearing his throat a few times. Dirk tightens his grip on his chin, a command for him to stop fidgeting. He stills, but continues speaking. “I’m not certain that you would remember it, actually. The last time the royal family visited, you were but a babe.”

“And you were wreaking havoc on the nearby grounds?”

Three short, shallower strokes, as he nears David’s jaw.

“Yes. While you were giving the governess a conniption,” David huffs out a laugh, the sound low and rough. It’s genuine, if abrupt. Dirk isn’t certain that it suits him. “She deserved it, she was a shrew of a woman, always prattling on about etiquette.” Now, just at the corners of his mouth, beneath his full lower lip that’s split and still healing. David is silent for this, but he begins speaking again as soon as Dirk moves away to clean off the blade.

“Etiquette is rather important for us, you know.” Wipe, rinse, repeat.

“For you,” David corrects, and there’s that familiar tinge of bitterness to his tone. Dirk is tempted to lean in, kiss it off of him, let the taste seep into his own tongue like poison. He’s used to it, after all.

“Your lack of etiquette was not the end of your ambitions, I can assure you.”

“No,” he says, his voice unusually solemn. It’s enough to make Dirk pause, just for a moment. “You were.”

The words hang in the air, and Dirk allows it- they have long since lost their sting. Yet another scar turned into a badge of pride. David swallows, just once, and he can see the motion of his throat. It’s a pleasure to know that his cock will be down it, later.

He’s silent as Dirk draws the blade just above his upper lip in two smooth strokes, then a third. Wipe, rinse, then the other cheek.

“It’s nearly done,” he murmurs quietly; not reassurance, but a simple statement. The Knight Commander is utterly still, statuesque, as his King walks to his other side to begin the process anew. “You were saying?” Dirk prompts, implicit permission for David to continue speaking, which he seems to grasp gratefully. Anything to break the silence, to distract from their sins.

“I was saying,” David says, grateful for the chance given, as he should be. “That the journey was far from comfortable, though I doubt you wish to hear about the specifics of our affliction with the bloody flux.”

“I suspect it would be marginally more pleasant than reading countless reports and hearing petitions from towns with those afflicted with the plague,” he remarks dryly. “The flux, at least, is survivable as far as maladies go.”

“Another outbreak?” David sits up slightly, and Dirk frowns, disapproving. The abrupt motion nearly makes him nick the fragile skin of the man’s neck, and Dirk is in no mood to see him bleed today.

“Indeed. They increase in number, though it is not yet as bad as it was ten years ago. The peasants have been the worst afflicted, as is to be expected, though there is a notable lack of the good community plague doctors at the moment. The general practitioners refuse to have any dealings with those who have fallen to it, of course. Such miasmas are deadly, but they must be treated.”

“The nobles fled into their country estates, and refused to come to court,” David recalls slowly, forcing himself to relax. “It was a rather quiet year. You were ill, too, and we were all terrified that you’d been afflicted.”

“There’s no need to use to collective, brother,” Dirk says, disarmingly gentle. The blade rasps against skin and stubble as he cleans off the edge of David’s jaw. The man’s throat bobs as he swallows, and Dirk can catch every miniscule movement of his face, the slow closure of his eyelids.

“Is that truly what you think of me?”

The question hangs in the room, a vulnerability that they both ignore under better circumstances.

“Are these to be last words in the face of future Death and a fiery grave?” Dirk asks instead, neatly dodging it. It’s a thorny problem, full of old hurts, wounds that have not yet scabbed over. He refuses to address it. “I never query as to what you think of me.”

“Is that because you would rather not know?” David responds, too quickly. How astute of him, and in the end, how foolish. It was David that taught him that a King is above the opinions of others, after all. He does not ask because it does not matter, and if it seems to be a form of cowardice, there is no one else who would accuse him of it. Despite the truth that it may contain.

“It’s because I do not believe you would speak the truth,” he corrects the elder, and with one last scrape, his skin is smooth and clean-shaven.

Dirk uses a clean corner of the cloth, dips it into the basin and gently wipes David’s face and neck clean of any lingering lather. He only steps back when he’s done, and his brother remains silent the entire time. It’s a novel experience, but one that speaks of successful training.

“I’m quite content to have you at my side, brother. And in my bed, all things considered. It is better we not ruin this with trivial matters such as that. You are mine, and that is the end of it.” He folds the cloth into a neat square, and drapes it over the rim of the basin. “Clean this up, then join me on the bed.”

Dirk doesn’t bother to look at David’s expression as he straightens up, leaving the other to clean up. Instead, he arranges himself on the bed in a mockery of a position he was so often ordered to await the former King Regent.  He’s certain that the unsubtle reminder is heeded, though the man appears to be in a bold mood today, for he pauses to continue speaking.

“And when you marry?” David asks, his tone challenging. Dirk turns to face him, raising an eyebrow. He knows that the smirk that curls his mouth is mockingly kind, that his eyes are cruel even as he lounges lazily on the silken sheets. It’s something he’d learned from his brother, after all. David is strangely insistent on this point- perhaps he sees it as a potential avenue of escape. Dirk had thought the same. “Will you want me at your side then, in your bed? What will your queenly wife thinks, that her husband lays not only with another man, but with his brother besides?”

The topic is not one Dirk cares to think of.

“Then I suppose I’ll either be selecting an heir, or naming Roxanne as my successor. And,” he adds, sitting up slightly, his eyes hooded and his gaze deliberately cold. It is the sort of gaze he’s perfected over the years, reserved for those who are the source of his displeasure, and now it serves as a warning. He’s kinder than David ever was, that way. In his offering of a warning. “That’s enough out of you on that topic, yes? Unless you wish to discuss why, precisely, I’m doing this. And the reason that you let me.”

“Selection is risky,” is all David says, before disappearing to the bathroom to stow away the blade and soap for another time. Still running from that subject, it appears. That’s perfectly acceptable for now; the day they speak frankly of it will be the last time they meet. Dirk simply hums. His brother reappears a moment later, hesitantly approaching the bed.

“I’m aware. But should I marry, I highly doubt that I would be producing an heir to begin with. Picking a spouse is a challenging prospect to begin with, and I doubt that any woman I found suitable to be queen would be meek enough to simply accept my proclivities. It would be the utmost disrespect to her to keep you in my bed. Though, perhaps she could entertain some outside partners of her own, if we were to come to an arrangement.” This, he states casually, though his gaze is trained on David the entire time.

He can’t quite tell if the tension in his shoulders at the suggestion is out of hope or jealousy.

“Why have you not married?” Dirk continues, raising an eyebrow at his Knight Commander. “Should you meet someone you wish to dedicate yourself to, I could consider giving you permission.”

This is not entirely a lie- Dirk would consider it, and perhaps allow it, if he were feeling exceptionally cruel. If it were someone who David was foolish enough to love, if he were actually capable of it. Dirk isn’t himself, given that it’s a luxury he has been taught he cannot afford, but the sentiment is always rather appealing.

“Who would I dedicate myself to but you, Your Majesty?” Dirk is certain that it is meant to be cutting, sarcastic, but there is something frightfully genuine about those words. It would be enough to cut him to the quick with guilt, and the foolish boy that he once was rears its head again, urges him to take David into his arms and offer what comfort he can. Ply him with quiet jokes, and then kisses once he grew older, and then his body, as he was once commanded.

“I’m sure you could find someone who would want you, after a few years of thorough searching,” Dirk remarks casually. He dislikes the thought greatly, and it is not something he needs to hide- it’s almost certain that David knows it already. “But there’s no reason for you to begin that particular quest now. Perhaps when I am to marry, as you seem to think is essential. I will have a wife, and I suppose we shall attempt to produce an heir, but with luck it will not be an unbearable partnership. You’re likely to marry and proceed to have a series of small affairs on the side, but I doubt that your erstwhile spouse will mind- you will cure them of that in time. And you will of course have a lovely medal to pin to your chest or decorate your home as a sign of the King’s favour to his brother and former Knight Commander, displayed as a point of pride whenever you are to entertain or do whatever you chose in your dotage.”

It is easy to outline such a future, even easier to see the pieces falling neatly into place. Dirk, proposing to a nobleman’s daughter or royalty from a neighboring kingdom to cement an alliance. David meeting someone and begging his leave. Perhaps they would have one last night together- Dirk knows that he is far too weak to simply send David away without a word. Without closure. He despises himself for it, just like he despises himself for balking at the only future in which this can end well, or end at all.

He does not need an outside perspective to know precisely how foolish it is to keep clinging to this facsimile of a relationship with his brother, despite what occurred in the past. Revenge and vindication can only serve as motivation for so long, and this has long outlasted that.

“You assume a longevity that I am unlikely to have,” is all David says in response, a while later. Dirk is disgustingly grateful for the statement, for it draws him from the melancholy of his thoughts.

“You have already survived this long, brother dear. I see no fault in giving you credit where it is due. Now, come here, and we shall see if I will be equally free with praise in other aspects,” he commands, shifting the topic to something more pleasurable. He lifts a hand and beckons the other close, and it is still immensely gratifying to see him obediently crawl onto the bed, settle down beside him rather than above him, patient and pliant rather than hungry and domineering.

(A body above his own, pinning him down and their hips rutting together; the motions are frantic and the cock against his own is a stripe of heat that burns like an invisible brand. The bite marks already throb, his fingers are fisted tight in blonde hair and there’s a mouth on his that’s rough with stubble and teeth sinking into his lower lip just hard enough to draw blood, as if this show of power could hold off the inevitable.)

When Dirk gives a brief nod, David slides a hand down his torso to cup his length, skilled fingers beginning to work him into hardness. Dirk does not return the favour; instead, he leans in to cup the man’s face with one hand, bringing their lips together. It maintains the veneer of gentleness, all quiet hums and the stroke of his thumb against the arch of David’s cheeks, newly shaven and smooth. The kind of kissing that would be found in the bed of longtime lovers, tinged with affection and surety that they have all the time in the world for this. Dirk’s free hand comes to rest on his brother’s chest, and he can feel the other’s pulse quicken as he rolls his hips to thrust lazily into his hand. He knows that David would rather press forward, take more than is offered, but he has learned patience so well.

Dirk rewards that by parting his lips in invitation, and it’s amusing how eager his Knight Commander is to slide his tongue into his King’s mouth, as if such a simple action can change their dynamics so easily. Still, Dirk allows it; he is in a generous mood today. Only when David shifts as if to pin him down again does Dirk pull away with a soft, wet noise, his lips pressed into a disapproving frown.

“I apologize,” David says instantly, and Dirk raises an eyebrow. He’s learned how to feign contriteness quite well, too. Though perhaps it is genuine; the first acts of disobedience when their roles had switched so abruptly, Dirk had dealt with poorly. Too harshly, he sometimes thinks, but if he has learned nothing from his brother, he has learned that unsavoury things are necessary. That the end justifies the means. Of course, it isn’t a lesson David particularly cared to have turned on its head in quite that way, but Dirk can’t bring himself to regret it.

“Let me have your mouth, then,” he replies instead, leaning back, one arm folded behind his head. The picture of indolence.

A familiar wry smirk tugs at the corners of David’s mouth as he complies, his mouth hot and wet as he begins kissing down Dirk’s body, earning himself a low hum of approval, and slim fingers threading through his hair. Dirk’s cock has stirred into a somewhat interested state, though it’s impossible to maintain indifference as David takes the liberty of dragging his teeth down the taut skin of his abdomen, nipping at the protrusions of his hipbones. Never hard enough to leave any marks- Dirk does not allow him that, anymore, can’t bear to look in the mirror and see those bruises of ownership stamped across his skin. They were nothing in comparison to the more permanent reminders, though he now bears those as a point of pride. At the very least, the physical one is aesthetically pleasing.

“Good boy,” he praises, the words falling from his lips almost too-soft to hear. They’re familiar by now, of course, and David shivers to hear them as his tongue slides out to wet the thickening flesh of the King’s erection. His lips, pleasingly swollen from kissing, press along the underside of the shaft in messy, open-mouthed kisses, all the way down to the base, where they dip to wrap around his sack. Dirk moans freely at that, and he can feel the way David hums in satisfaction.

“I was considering rewarding you tonight, you know,” Dirk begins, glancing down to appreciate the sight of David licking a stripe along his cock, pressing an almost chaste kiss to the head, which is by now wet with both saliva and a few droplets of his own fluid.

“Were you?” His brother prompts, and the words would be almost casual, conversational, if it were not for the gleam of hunger in his eyes, poorly hidden. Dirk often thinks that the change in their dynamic, what was essentially a coup d’état behind closed doors, may have been easier than he had originally thought, simply due to the fact that David wants him in any capacity. When he feels cynical about it, he assumes that it’s the innate need to have proximity to power. He rarely feels otherwise.

“Mm, yes,” he murmurs, quite unable to prevent himself from carding his fingers through Dave’s hair. The strands are unusually soft, given that he has spent nearly six months away on the battlefield. “You have done quite well, after all- and I do intend to be fair and just when I am able to.”

“And when you cannot avoid it,” David replies with the ghost of a smile.

“Quite.” Dirk rolls his hips in a lazy thrust, an unsubtle command for him to get back to work. He does, but less eager than before; clearly attentive to what his King has to say. Dirk slides into his mouth proper with sickening ease, the action drawing a low groan out of him before he begins speaking again. “You did quite well while you were away, and do I not always reward your good behaviour?” This, accompanied by a slight tug on his hair to draw David upwards for a deep kiss. The loss of his mouth, all wet heat and a too-talented tongue and the smooth press of a rounded metal stud against sensitive flesh, is profound but tragically necessary.

He can feel the hot stripe of his brother’s cock pressing insistently against his thigh, thick and slightly sticky at the head, and he reaches down to give it an altogether unkind squeeze. It’s enough to make David groan and flinch above him, the hesitance lasting only a second before he’s rutting into Dirk’s slim fingers.

It isn’t an answer to his previous question, but it’s still encouraging. He presses the metal of the piercing down, just to make David shudder all over again, the rhythm of his hips stuttering and picking up into something a little more frantic. Dirk breaks the kiss so he can properly watch it all, take in the way David’s cheeks are flushed a becoming pink, his mouth slightly open and lips swollen, his eyes half-lidded; the sight entirely opposite the composed indifference he keeps on his face, just tinged with insolence. It’s a reminder that the Knight Commander, the former King Regent, is just as human as Dirk is himself. That he can be brought down to those same base urges, his body seeking pleasure where it’s offered so freely and surrendering its will to another in exchange for a brief high. It wouldn’t do to give that to him so quickly, though.

Dirk knows the cadence of every moan, the roughness of each huff of breath, and he’s all too familiar with the way David’s thrusts get sharper as he approaches his peak. It’s then that he lets go, his fingers uncurling and his hand dropping to rest on the sheets below them, leaving David rocking into thin air, unsatisfied.

There’s a single, glorious moment of desperation in his eyes as their gazes meet, his chest heaving and hips stilling. Dirk leans forward and kisses to unspoken plea right from his lips, but he doesn’t bother to hide the smug tilt to his lips as he pulls away.

“That would be too early, now wouldn’t it?” He begins, raising an eyebrow at his brother. “And we have not yet begun.”

“…Of course,” David responds after a moment, his voice low and rough. “Am I to fetch anything, before we begin?” He is already shifting onto all fours, how quaint.

“I want to see you,” Dirk shakes his head, gesturing for David to recline against the cushions. “And what we have within arm’s reach will be more than sufficient.” The flush that stains his brother’s cheeks seems to darken then, ruby-red eyes glancing away. It’s intriguing, how he can play at embarrassment and shyness given that Dirk has seen him at his best and worst. It’s comforting to know that none other will know David quite as well as he does, regardless of what the future may hold.

His reluctance in this is quite endearing, considering how easily he can be made to moan like a wanton whore. How easily he was doing just that not fifteen minutes ago. Dirk coaxes his legs open, before getting settled between them. His fingers gleam in the firelight where they’re slicked with oil- plain and only scented faintly with citrus, as opposed to the strange, herb-pressed ones David often used on him. Dirk finds that he prefers to keep those confined to special occasions, and more often, punishment.

He is aware that he doesn’t necessarily _need_ to use his fingers for this, just as he never needs to take David’s cock into his mouth and toy with the thick piercing through the head until it weeps clear, bitter fluid and his brother is shaking with the effort it takes to hold back moans above him. But it is an indulgence he always takes; why should he not, when David’s preferences lie in a quick, rough tumble? Dirk prefers to take his time and make the former King Regent, the Knight Commander so known for being just and loyal and heroic, fall apart under his touch and writhe, begging for more.

The most wondrous thing is how _easy_ it is. Two fingers in and he’s already squirming, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“None of that,” Dirk says, and sinks his teeth into the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thigh, hard enough to make it tense and David flinch. Enough to leave a mark the next day, one which he’ll have the excellent good fortune of seeing. “Just as I wish to see you, I wish to hear you. Though do keep in mind that you aren’t allowed to move, or touch me. I’d hate to have to stop and punish you.”

David stills almost immediately, and the flush that colors his cheeks a beautiful shade of red is tinged with shame, all too visible in the stubborn set of his jaw. Dirk will not mention it, not when it suits the man so well to be flushing and spread open and disliking just how much he enjoys it.

If circumstances were different, he would not be so quick to heap a reward on his Knight Commander, but the campaign is over with a resounding success, and David is in his bed, precisely where he belongs. Dirk languidly licks up his thigh, and presses a third finger in without prompting- it would be cruel to make him beg for it so soon today.

Dirk notes the way David’s fingers are curled tightly into the silken sheets, his grip white-knuckled against the delicate material when his own fingers press in deep, finding that smooth ridge of skin inside him. It is faintly amusing, how hard David is trying to hold out against this particular for of pleasure, as if it were so much different from rutting into his hand like an animal, as if it were not the same unconditional surrender he had demanded from Dirk before. They both know how much he desires this, how much he enjoys it, and Dirk has always made a point of his dislike of senseless displays of pride in the face of futility. It had gotten him nowhere, after all.

He digs his fingers into the red mark on David’s thigh as he sits up, drawing out a curse. His Knight’s cock is slick with spit, looking almost painfully engorged and drooling a pale, sticky mess onto his stomach. Dirk’s own is not in a better condition, but he isn’t nearly as desperate, even if the sight of David spread out and wanting beneath him is beyond enticing.

“Dirk- _!_ ,” A bitten-off cry of his name at a particularly brutal twist of his fingers, David’s thighs trembling and tense.

(That same cut-off groan of his name a thousand times over as his legs are spread, as he’s bent over and filled up, as he’s told to kneel and serve.)

He stops moving his fingers, begins to ease them out.

David seems to realize his mistake then, corrects it with a hastily murmured apology and ‘Your Majesty’, and the silence stretches for a second before he gives Dirk what he has been waiting for- an almost shy glance, and the barest whisper of the word ‘please’. It sounds as if it were being torn out of him, and his reluctance to beg is strangely endearing.

“I do not believe I quite heard that. Be more specific,” he prompts, simply to be cruel. It is always so fascinating to watch him struggle with this, as if the outcome will be any difference. As if his willpower is enough to win out the promise of physical pleasure, when it has never done so in the past.

“Please fuck me,” David repeats, clear and enunciated, though his voice is not nearly as genuine as Dirk might like. But it is still convincing enough, and Dirk finds himself reluctant to wait longer. He reaches for the oil and slicks himself up, all the while ignoring the way David’s gaze rakes over him and the way it leaves a flush high in his cheeks and makes his arousal flare hotter.

“Since you have been so polite as to _ask_ for it,” he murmurs as he nudges David’s thighs further apart, the blunt head of his cock pressing against a rim that is already pink with use, wet and hot against him.

The push in is easy, as natural as breathing, even though it leaves them both breathless for a second. David leans up, pressing kisses along his jaw as Dirk begins to rock his hips, the moment so unbearably tender. The gentleness is not enough to satisfy his brother, Dirk knows, but when he feels the slight scrape of teeth against his neck, he presses his palm flat against David’s chest, pushing him back down onto the mattress in a silent order to lay flat.

There is a hint of ugly satisfaction in the Knight Commander’s face after that, when Dirk allows himself to get rougher, driving into him harshly. It vanishes nearly as soon as it appears, though, and Dirk lets it go without more admonishment than the scrape of his nails down David’s side, leaving a trail of faintly lines that soon fade.

Like this, he is aware of every miniscule expression that flits across his brother’s face, and the spread of that flush down to his chest, the hitching of his breath and the way he’s subtly trying to rock his hips into each thrust as he begins to properly enjoy it. The only disadvantage to this is that David has an equally good view; absently, Dirk considers the merits of keeping him blindfolded during their next liaison. He does tend to be more compliant then, requiring something to hide behind before he can allow himself to fully enjoy the encounter. It is not a game that Dirk indulges in very often- he prefers that David see what is going on, that he knows who he belongs to.

David is getting louder now, though, his groans low and throaty, his back arched. He cries out when Dirk shifts his angle to press in deeper with each thrust, one hand making an aborted movement to wrap around his cock. Dirk takes mercy on him and offers up his own hand, fingers loosely curled around his erection. The residual oil still on his hand makes it slicker, even when he thumbs at the metal through the head and coaxes out another few droplets of pre right onto his finger.

The sound of skin slapping against skin and the wetter, more obscene noises of each thrust mingle with David’s moans, and Dirk’s harsh huffs of breath. The gold of his cuffs glints with another halted movement, his hands lifted just slightly off the bed before being lowered back onto it. Dirk leans down closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of David’s mouth, and then another, and another, trailing the down his jaw with a scrape of teeth that sets a moan rumbling in the other’s chest. Every carefully scripted movement pushes him closer, builds that pleasure and makes him want more. It would be easy to let go as much as he wishes to, but Dirk can only allow himself so much.

“Not yet,” he warns as he feels David tense around him, his length throbbing against the loose fist Dirk has provided for him to fuck into. His fingers circle the base and he tightens his grip, enough to be almost painful- more than enough to stave off an impending climax, judging from the strangled noise of frustration his brother makes beneath him.

“D- _Please_ ,” David gasps out, tightening around him. His thighs are tense, his back arched and posture as taut as a drawn bow. Dirk starts to move again, his careful rhythm slowly disintegrating as David goes as far as to lock his legs around Dirk’s waist, an imperious demand to remain close, and one that Dirk cannot resist. Not when he can feel himself approaching the edge, pleasure coiling tight in his gut and spurring him to slam into his Knight with all those primal urges rearing their ugly heads, each something a King is not meant to be. Selfish, indulgent, impatient, unfettered, human.

He loosens his hold on David’s length before he comes with a strangled gasp, buried deep inside him as his climax washes over him, drowning out everything else. His eyes close, and the last thing he sees is a strange, far-off look crossing David’s face, something impossibly close to awe. Dirk is distantly aware of a friction against his fist, his fingers loose and unresponsive, and then the wet heat of David spilling into it, clenching tight around his too-sensitive cock.

He does not open his eyes just yet, even as he balances his weight on one of his forearms, so terribly tempted to simply collapse onto his brother. But he has already fallen far enough for tonight, and necessity forces him to withdraw before he’s ready to, wincing as cool air meets his skin.

David’s legs fall to the bed with some prompting, and Dirk receives a hazy look as he draws away, padding to the bathroom to retrieve a clean cloth to deal with the mess on them both. Perhaps he lingers longer than is strictly necessary, staring at himself in the ornate mirror that hangs against the deep blue of the wall. The same circles under his eyes from sleeplessness due to stress, the same lax set to his shoulders, the empty satisfaction written across his face. But there are no bruises on him today, no red marks to turn deep purple, no fading, yellowed ones pressed into his skin. It does not make him feel any better, as he reassembles himself once more. His shoulders come up, his spine straightens, his mouth presses back into a thin line.

When he leaves the bathroom, avid is only just beginning to sit up, and he accepts the cloth without complaints as Dirk begins to gather up the clothes strewn on the floor, at the foot of the bed. He folds them neatly, tucks them away to be laundered the next day. David gets up and slips into the bathroom with only a single glance his way, presumably to deal with the unpleasant aftermath.

Yet another thing that Dirk cannot bring himself to regret.

He puts out the candles one by one, until the room is blanketed in darkness but for a small circle of light by his bed, though this too is extinguished as he slides between the sheets nude. The bathroom door creaks open minutes later, and there are still no words between them, even as he feels the mattress dip as David gets into bed, eases in right next to him.

Dirk rarely issues an invitation for that, but he rarely protests it as well.

“Goodnight, Dirk,” his brother murmurs into his hair, and Dirk can’t help but curl closer, tuck his face into the crook of the elder’s neck though he’s too old to believe that it provides any form of security, and too jaded to truly trust the gesture.

“Goodnight,” he answers, softly. The last thing he feels before he drifts off is David’s arm coming to wrap around him, a weight that he wishes were comforting.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I kind of gave up on the dick slang here, since there's not much listed for the 14th and 15th centuries, which is when this would take place. Close to the Renaissance, perhaps, but definitely not after Spain became an Empire and the rush for colonies in the New World began. I say this like I literally could not just have Derse be on it own planet like the game mechanics lmao
> 
> Find me on tumblr at @quixxotique if you want the full ugly backstory that I have probably hinted at judiciously enough that y'all already know what went down.


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